


Who Your Friends Are

by Guanin



Series: Antipodal Shadows [5]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, mention of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 16:15:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2658335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guanin/pseuds/Guanin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immediately follows "The One He Cannot Lose". </p><p>Jim wakes up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Your Friends Are

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you again for the great comments and kudos. They make my day.

Jim woke up feeling like a steamroller had crushed his entire body and left him flatter than a cartoon character pancake. His head was buzzing, his mouth felt like sandpaper, and his eyes hurt just from trying to open them. The most dignified thing he could do was groan as he realized that he was lying on a bed that wasn’t his, the light was too bright, and there was a weird beeping sound. 

A heart monitor. 

"Jim?"

"Barbara?"

"Oh my God, Jim! You're okay!"

Was he? He finally managed to get his eyes open and saw Barbara's smiling face so close to his and a... hospital room? 

A dart. In his neck. The man he and Harvey had been after. He attacked Jim.

"How long have I been here?" he asked.

"Almost two days. How are you feeling? Does anything hurt?"

"Everything. My whole body's sore." 

He saw a water bottle on the bedside table and started reaching for it, but only managed to lift his arm up halfway before pain shot through his shoulder. 

"Let me get that for you," Barbara said, uncapping the bottle and handing it to him. 

"Thanks."

He downed half the bottle in one go.

"They're clearly not giving you enough saline."

"My mouth is dry. I feel like I ran a marathon. What happened? Did the doctors figure out how to counteract the drug?"

"No. Cobblepot brought the antidote this morning. He found the guy who attacked you. Harvey called me a little after five telling me that they had an antidote, so I rushed here and Cobblepot was here by your bed with Harvey. One of his men was guarding the door."

"Cobblepot's."

"Yes. He said he couldn't let someone do this to you."

Right. The guy who had attacked him was probably dead by now. There was no point even looking for a body.

"So," Jim said, falling back against the pillow. "Case closed, then."

"I guess so."

Barbara leaned back a bit in her chair. She sat stiffly, gazing between the bed and the opposite wall, obviously uncertain about where to look. Made sense. Last time they saw each other, they had another fight. They were almost daily now. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure if they could recover. Barbara’s abduction by Falcone, the constant threat of danger that Jim’s job imposed in a city like Gotham, it all took its toll in fractured nerves and sleepless nights. It hurt. He refused to think of it as inevitable, but, finding her at his bedside like this, he didn’t have high hopes of experiencing it again. 

"I better call Harvey,” Barbara said, interrupting the uncomfortable silence they had both fallen into “He made me swear to tell him as soon as you woke up. And Bruce. He and Alfred came to see you yesterday. He was pretty worried."

Jim smiled a bit. Bruce was a good kid. 

"I can call them myself. I just need my phone."

“Harvey has it. I can call them for you. It’s not a problem. You just lie here and rest up, okay?” She gave him a fragile smile as she got up from the chair. “I’m going to go find a doctor, tell them you’re awake.”

She left the room. Jim dropped his head back on the pillow, shutting his eyes as he felt the tell tale pounding of a headache at his temple. Everything hurt. Everything. 

He wished he had his phone so he could call Oswald. He needed to thank him. Oswald had saved his life again. Technically, they were even now, but no one was counting. They were beyond that. Also, he needed to ask him precisely what had happened. Yet, did he really want to know? Probably not, but he felt like he should. He already let Oswald hide too many things from him by not asking. He would not be blind to something that concerned him. 

A doctor came by to check on him, marveling at his progress. He was a little worse for wear, of course, but was already greatly improved. Learning that he was on a reduced dose of painkillers since they had administered the antidote made him really glad that he couldn’t seem to remember anything since he had passed out soon after the attack. If he felt this crappy without a full dose, the memory of that pain ripping through his body after he’d pulled the dart out of his neck had just been the tip of the iceberg. They would keep him one more night for observation and for Jim to recover his strength, but he should be able to leave in the morning. He asked about the other victims. Three dead, one living. The drug had ravaged through their systems within 48 hours. Jim had been hours away from not making it.

Bullock came by a couple of hours later. He looked like Jim felt, beaten up, exhausted, disheveled, yet with a happy smile on his face. 

“Shift’s not over,” Harvey said, “but screw it. How are you doing, man? It’s so good to see you conscious. It was touch and go for a while there.”

“I heard. I don’t remember anything from when I was attacked until I woke up, which is probably a good thing.”

“Hell, yes. You got the rough end of a nasty toxin.”

“Oswald found the guy who did this?”

“Yeah. Harold Manning. Used to be a pharmacist. Decided to go a little coo coo after he got laid off. We almost caught him, though. We and Cobblepot’s guys were searching in the same area.”

“Were you and Oswald working together on this?”

Harvey shrugged.

“Maybe a little. The clock was ticking and we had very few leads.”

“It's a little weird to picture you working with Oswald."

“Yeah, well. You gotta do what you gotta do.”

“True. I really appreciate everything you did.”

“No problem, man. I prefer my partners alive, so make sure you stay that way.”

“Yeah,” Jim smiled. “I’ll do my best. Hey, Barbara told me that you have my phone.”

“Oh, right. I used it to contact Cobblepot after you were attacked.” Harvey took the phone out of his breast pocket and handed it to Jim. “There you go.”

“Thanks.”

“I told him you’re awake. He said he would come by as soon as he could. I think he had work stuff to take care of.”

Jim nodded. Oswald would come soon enough, he was sure of it.

“Well,” Harvey said. “I’ve got to get back to work before the Captain yells at me. She told me to tell you that she’s happy to hear that you’re okay. Sorry, I should have told you earlier. My brain’s tired.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve been there many times.”

“I’ll be seeing you.”

“See you later.”

`````````  
Barbara returned later for a little while, but it didn’t take long for the silence to grow heavy between them again, so Jim told her that she should go and get some rest herself. It didn’t look like she’d had much sleep, and, under the circumstances, neither of them were in a good place to talk about what needed to be talked about.

Bruce and Alfred visited around 4pm. It took some time for Jim to reassure Bruce that he would, in fact, fully recover and not die anytime soon. After the death of his parents, it was perfectly understandable. This being the second time that Jim almost died on him didn't help, either. After promising Bruce that he would not die, they left him to rest up. Thinking back on his phrasing, Jim got the feeling that he had just promised to become immortal. Bruce would be very disappointed when he didn't deliver.

After they left, he got a text from Oswald. Finally. It had been a couple of hours at least since Harvey had stopped by.

_Jim? Do you have your phone back?_

_Yes_

_Oh, good. I’m so happy that you’re ok._

_Thanks. I know you got the antidote. Thank you. Heard you were coming over._

_Yes. I’m in the lobby._

_Come up, then._

_I saw the Wayne boy leave. Didn’t want to disturb._

_I’m alone. Get up here._

Oswald did, a brilliant smile shining on his face when he entered the room and looked at Jim, relief in his eyes. It was one of the few nice looking things about him at the moment. His suit was well put together like always, but his hair was flat and limp, not raised in its usual ridge, only a few wispy strands covering his forehead. The shadows under his eyes were even darker than normal, clear signs of exhaustion. And his limp was worse, right leg dragging on the floor. He leaned heavily on his umbrella, something he rarely did. 

“I’m so happy to see you,” he said, walking further into the room. “I was so worried you wouldn’t recover.”

“I am, thanks to you. Sit down. You look like you’re about to fall over.”

“It’s not that bad,” Oswald said, but he did as Jim instructed, falling into the chair by Jim’s bed, his breath a little shallow. “I merely overexerted myself yesterday.”

“How?”

“Looking through abandoned buildings for the bastard who attacked you.”

“I thought you had your men doing that.”

“I wasn’t going to sit still while you were dying, Jim. There was a lot of ground to cover. I’ll be fine in a couple of days. Don’t worry about me.”

Jim couldn’t help but worry about him. Worry whether Oswald was getting hurt or hurting someone else or whether Jim would have to rescue him again or arrest him, which he wasn’t sure he would be able to do if he ever found himself in that situation. 

“Just make sure you rest up, okay?” Jim said.

“I should be telling you that. Last I saw you, you… you scared me. You were in so much pain. I never want to see you like that again.”

His eyes bore through Jim’s, his fear palpable in a gaze that startled Jim with its intensity, but which he found that he didn’t want to break. 

“I’m alright now. I’ll be fine. You saved me. Thank you so much for that. I owe you my life again.”

“You don’t—“

“I know. We’re not counting life debts. I’m not keeping score. I just want you to know that you have been a good friend to me. Better than I’ve been to you.”

“I’m not what you look for in a friend.” Oswald shrugged. “I understand that.”

“It doesn’t matter what I look for. You’ve more than earned the title.”

Ignoring the ache in his shoulder, Jim placed his hand on Oswald’s right, upper arm, squeezing it gently. He smiled, wanting Oswald to know that he meant every word. Smiling back, Oswald raised his left hand and gripped Jim’s wrist, holding it to his arm, fingers soft and light. He ducked his head, suddenly shy, the motion charming. Jim had never had much physical contact with Oswald, never sought it out, but it wasn’t bad touching him like this. Oswald’s arm felt thin under the two layers of fabric covering it, but Jim knew how capable it could be. How determined the hand at his wrist was. How genuine was the joy in his eyes when he turned to Jim and smiled with those imperfect teeth that Jim had ceased to think of as flawed a long time ago. 

“You have no idea what it means to me to hear you say that,” Oswald said.

His thumb rubbed over the bone of Jim’s wrist, so lightly that he didn’t appear to be conscious of it. Something strong, like a shock, ran through Jim’s arm at the simple touch, an electric current humming in his insides. He sucked in a breath, eyes drawn to their almost joined hands, and slowly lifted his arm away. Oswald’s hand slid off, long fingers tracing a route over his skin as Jim completed the motion. 

Shifting on the bed, Jim sat up straighter on the pillows that had been piled behind his back, suddenly lightheaded, his vision blurring for a moment. The toxin had really taken it out of him.

“Tell me what happened,” he asked, pretending that nothing was amiss. 

Oswald hesitated, his smile slipping into an uncertain frown. 

“It might be best not to discuss that here,” he said quietly.

Right. If you’re going to confess to murder, best not do it in the open.

“Tomorrow, then. They should be letting me out in the morning. We can talk at my apartment.”

A crazy thought occurred to him, and it was out of his mouth before he could stop voicing it aloud.

“Can you pick me up?”

Oswald looked startled.

“I thought Barbara was going to do that,” he said.

That name was like a jab to Jim’s stomach. Looking down at the blanket pooled around his knees, he traced one, long wrinkle with his gaze to refocus.

“Yeah,” he said. “She was, but… I’m going to be staying at my place for a bit, not hers, so there’s no need for her to do it.” 

He didn’t want to force her to be cordial to him just because he was recuperating, their exchanges strained and awkward because neither of them felt comfortable saying what they truly meant. Being at his own apartment was the best thing for now. It’s where he had stayed the night before he was attacked, anyway.

“We’re not doing great right now,” he said at last, uncomfortably aware of the curious gaze that Oswald was giving him. 

“I’m sorry.”

Jim pressed his lips together in a grim line.

“Thanks.”

“I can pick you up.”

Jim forced a smile.

“That would be great.”

````````  
The next day, Jim woke up to find himself less than fully recovered. He felt slightly less than crap stuck on someone’s shoe, but only slightly. Of course, he lied to the doctor, emphasizing how much better he felt and how he had totally taken a turn around his room earlier without almost crashing into a chair because a dizzy spell whacked him upside the head. He couldn’t stand the plainness of the white walls anymore, not for one more hour, much less one more day. If he was going to feel like hell was giving him the grand tour, he might as well do so in the comfort of his own home. 

Oswald arrived at exactly 9am to pick him up, sans umbrella, so at least one them had improved. Staying upright only through sheer will power, Jim made it through the entire checking out process and down the elevator to the parking garage without giving away how much his bones felt like they were scraping away at each other. His muscles weakened with every step, legs feeling like they were made of cinder blocks, his head starting to swim atop his neck. He hoped that every car they passed would be Oswald’s so that he could finally collapse in peace.

“Here we are,” Oswald finally, unlocking a sleek, black sedan.

Oh, thank God. 

“It’s the closest space I could find,” Oswald said apologetically.

“That’s okay.”

Jim fell into the passage seat, shutting his eyes as his head dropped back, legs stretched before him, every sinew in his body protesting what he had just put them through. And all he’d done was walk a few steps and ride down an elevator. It was ridiculous. So much for going back to work tomorrow. 

He heard Oswald shut his door and turn on the engine.

“How are you doing?” Oswald asked. 

“I’m alright. Just tired.” 

Christ, he could sleep for a month. He actually fell asleep on the way, hoping straight into a dream where he was lying on a couch that he couldn’t lift himself out of no matter how hard he tried. Someone kissed his forehead, a faceless form standing above him. Words murmured in his ear, soft, too light to hear.

A hand on his shoulder nudged him awake. He startled, turning around in his seat to see Oswald peering at him with concern. The dream shrank away, retreating from his memory. 

“We’re here,” Oswald said.

Huh. So they were. Oswald was double parked in front of his building, which did not please the drivers behind them. They honked in protest, squeezing around them with roaring engines, but Oswald acted as if he didn’t hear them. As a cop who actually cared, Jim probably should mention how double parking was illegal.

“Are you going to leave your car here?” he asked, implying it instead.

“Oh! No, I wouldn’t dream of it. I just wasn’t sure where I could find parking and I didn’t want you to walk far.”

“There’s an alleyway behind the building where you can leave your car for a bit. The neighbors won’t like it, but, well, screw them.”

That made Oswald chuckle. 

“Which side is closest to your apartment?” he asked.

“It’s at the back, but the elevator’s here.” And stairs were not his friend right now. “I’ll wait for you out here.” 

``````  
Oswald had never been in Jim’s apartment before. It was a far cry from Barbara’s with its fine, chic furniture and rooms so spacious that you could fit most people’s houses in it and still have space left over. This apartment was quieter, more Jim-like. Good sized, yet not cavernous rooms. Sturdy, comfortable looking furniture. Vintage photos of Gotham on the living room walls. Jim loved the city as much as Oswald did, they just preferred different sides of it.

Oswald had discovered the apartment’s location when he decided to pay Jim a visit after returning to Gotham months ago, but his sources had revealed that Jim spent most of his nights at Ms. Kean’s place, so that had been the safer bet. Not so these days, perhaps. He had to admit, as much as it saddened Oswald to see Jim upset, hearing him say that he and his girlfriend were in the midst of a very rough patch had given him a little burst of joy. Not that Jim would ever consider a person like him for a bedmate, but hope sprang eternal, like they said. 

Of course, so much of Jim’s goodwill depended on him not knowing the details of Oswald’s transactions. Jim arrested murderers and thieves. Befriending them was not something he did, with Oswald being a delightful exception. Oswald had promised not to lie to him, and Jim had returned the favor by not asking about what he surely could guess the truth of but did not truly wish to know. Until now. Of course, it was only expected that Jim would wish to know how his safety was achieved. Surely he could guess this one, too, but it seemed that he wanted to be sure. Which would mean revealing certain details, which Oswald really didn’t want to do. How could a decent man like Jim look at him the same way after Oswald told him that he had stabbed a man to death for him? 

“I should offer you something to drink,” Jim said from his perch on the couch, which he had collapsed into as soon as they entered the apartment. He had put on such a brave face, trying to hide how much the toxin had hurt him.

“Oh, no,” Oswald said. “That’s not necessary. You need to rest. It should be I who gets you something.”

“Thanks. Water would be great, please.”

“Coming right up.”

Closing his eyes, Jim slouched as far down as he could go on the sofa while still being technically sitting up, legs stretched out before him, hands resting languidly on his thighs. Oswald’s gaze was drawn to the left one, the one he’d kissed in a moment of rash, stolen intimacy when he feared that the next time he saw Jim his skin would be stiff and cold. 

He hurried to the kitchen. Jim would notice if he just stood there, staring, fantasizing about touching his warm skin again when he should be pouring Jim a glass of water to help him feel better. There was a water in the fridge, along with a variety of fresh groceries and a note from Barbara that made a muscle in his jaw clench. 

_I know you’re going to say I shouldn’t have, but you shouldn’t have to worry about going food shopping when you’re not well. Please rest up._

_I love you,  
Barbara_

“Barbara brought you groceries,” Oswald said as he walked back into the living room, glass in one hand, note in the other. Soon enough, Jim would go into the kitchen himself and discover all this food that he hadn’t bought, and Oswald not mentioning it would only make him look bad. Besides, Oswald was the one who Jim asked to pick him up from the hospital. He was the one who Jim had leaned against when he had faltered while they made their way through the hallway on the way to the apartment. Not Barbara. One gift was not going to change that. It was a last ditch gesture, a desperate attempt to salvage what was probably a doomed relationship, if he had interpreted Jim’s tone correctly. 

"She did?" Jim asked, taking a long sip of water. 

"She left you a note."

Oswald handed it over and sat next to him, watching him carefully as he read it. Jim tried not to show when something upset him, but the little things revealed his emotions so clearly now. His mouth tightened slightly. His fingers squeezed the paper just a bit more than necessary as his gaze reached the bottom of the page. He blinked slowly, glancing away as he lowered the note and folded it in two, closing off the words, holding it firmly in his hand for a second before placing it on the small table beside the sofa.

"Is it that bad?" Oswald asked, attempting to be comforting.

After a moment, Jim nodded.

"Yeah. It's bad."

He knew he shouldn't be, that it was an awful thing to feel when Jim was this upset and Oswald truly hated seeing him like this, but, inside, he smiled just a tiny bit.

"So tell me what happened," Jim said.

Oswald's happy feeling was scorched away in a blaze of blinding panic.

"Well," Oswald said, kicking himself at the way that one word had trembled. "Bullock called me and told me that you were in the hospital, so I went down to see you and to get what information he had. I," _kissed you_ "put out a reward for any information on your attacker."

"How much?"

"Ten thousand dollars."

Jim raised his brows at that.

"Ten thousand?" he asked, sounding incredulous. "Did anyone claim it?"

"Two of my guys are getting a nice bonus."

"So twenty thousand in total. I'm worth that much to you?"

“Of course you are. I can spare the money, Jim. Not you.”

Jim looked down, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth just the tiniest bit.

“I’m touched,” he said. 

Oswald could see it in his eyes when Jim looked back up at him. Oswald matched that tenderness with a smile, unsure how to reply.

“What did you do to him?” Jim asked. 

Oswald’s smile shrank away. He hesitated, head lowered, looking at his nails, remembering how long it had taken to scrub the blood off. When he finally turned back to Jim, he met a gaze that held no judgment, no resignation, just the simple expectation that his assumption would be correct.

“I killed him,” he said, with no apology in his tone, only a need for understanding that it was the only thing he would have done.

Jim’s gaze didn’t falter.

“How?”

Oswald pressed his hands flat against his knees to stop them from shivering.

“You don’t want to know that,” he said.

“I need to.”

“Why?”

“Because it involves me. Because you did it for me.”

A shade of anger seeped into the last words, not loud, not accusing, just a little ashamed. A sucked in breath burned in Oswald’s throat. 

“He tried to kill you,” he said.

“So you killed him in return. I didn’t expect anything else. I’m asking what you did beyond that.”

“I really don’t think I should tell you.”

“You promised to tell me the truth.”

“Our friendship works because you don’t know precisely how I conduct my business.”

“I know how you conduct your business. You lie, you cheat, you manipulate, you kill. I know what the mob does to people. You know I’ve seen plenty of examples of that in my job. I don’t lie to myself and say you’re different. Sometimes on a case, when I see what was clearly a mob kill, I wonder if it was you. But then I remember that you wouldn’t be that sloppy. I already know what you are, Oswald.”

Halfway through his speech, Jim had turned away from him, his jaw hard set. Oswald watched his profile, afraid to ask what he needed to.

“Then why are you friends with me?”

“I don’t know.”

What more did Oswald expect, really? 

“At first, I felt like I owed you. Like I couldn’t get rid of you no matter how hard I tried. Then you started wearing me down. You gave me tips that helped me at my job. You gave me that scarf. And you said you wanted to be friends. I resisted. You remember that. You talked me into keeping it. And I thought, screw it. You sounded sincere enough. I’d never caught you in a lie, so I started believing that you really would keep your promise never to lie to me. I wanted to believe it. After a while, applying the word friend to you didn’t sound so bad. You’re good company. I enjoy talking to you. I don’t have to explain myself to you. You’re actually the only person who doesn’t question my passion to clean up Gotham, which is insane. You are what I’m fighting against. I should be arresting you right now for confessing to a murder, but I’m not. Even if I had the strength to take you in, I wouldn’t do it.”

“Because I killed him for you?” Oswald asked softly.

“Because you killed him. Because I don’t want to take you to jail. I don’t want to accept how corrupt the rules in Gotham are, how much you have to bend to get by and get anything done. I hate it. But with you, yes, you’re right, I don’t want to know precisely what you do. I don’t want to ask. If it doesn’t involve me, I don’t need to know. We can continue that policy. But I do need to know what you did in my name.”

Oswald had no way out. Jim had run him into a corner, dooming him more by not speaking because then he would be a liar on top of a killer. 

“I tested the antidote on him by injecting him with the toxin first,” Oswald said, voice as quiet as it could be without it being a whisper. “Then I broke his fingers, all of them, and I beat him to death with his own lab equipment.”

It took a long while for Manning to die. He’d made sure of it. Some bottles broke bone, others, he shattered and stabbed them into him, making sure they shredded muscle as painfully as possible. In the end, he had taken his own knife out and bathed it in the blood of Manning’s throat. 

“Was that what you expected to hear?” Oswald asked.

Jim dropped his head against the couch, staring up at the ceiling for the longest time. 

“I expected worse, actually.”

Oswald could have done worse. He had really wanted to. God, had he wanted to. But he suspected that Jim might ask. And he had promised not to lie. 

“Do you want me to leave?”

A clock ticked on the wall. Every second that went by without Jim answering or even looking at him felt like a hammer shattering his knees. His palms were sweating against the fabric covering his legs, his tie suddenly strangling him. The clock ticked. Still no reply. He pressed his hands against the edge of the couch, his arms bending, preparing to push to stand up when Jim spoke one, firm word.

“No.”

Oswald pulled his arms back, turning to Jim in surprise, a question on his face, but Jim wasn’t looking at him.

“I don’t want you to kill someone for me ever again,” Jim continued. “Not for revenge. Only if doing so saves my life or that of someone I care about, but not after the fact just to get even.”

Oswald’s mouth fumbled for a moment, momentarily forgetting how to function. 

“People knew I was after him,” he said when he found his tongue. “I would have looked weak if I didn’t—“

“Never again,” Jim cut him off, finally turning toward him with eyes that burned. “This one time is this one time. Please not again. Promise me like you promised not to lie.”

Slowly, knowing that this was his only chance at forgiveness, Oswald nodded.

“I promise.”

`````````  
 _You should arrest him_ the rational voice in Jim's head said. Maybe not for this, but for something, at some point, when it didn't reek of ingratitude. The only decent, proper thing to do was to arrest him. Yet what would be the fallout of all that? Would the DA’s office dare prosecute a man high in the estimation of the two biggest crime bosses in Gotham? And even if they did, what about the trail? Jim would have to testify. So he would sit at the witness box and give damming evidence against a man who he had declared to be his friend only yesterday? Who had saved his life twice? Would he avert his eyes from the look of betrayal that Oswald would shoot at him during the entire process? Would it be worth it to lock up the only person in Gotham who had stood at his side without question, even if he was a criminal? 

Oswald sat beside him, silent, fingers nervously rubbing the cushions. Jim had stopped trying to figure out ages ago why he desired Jim's friendship so desperately. So he liked associating with a decent man. That wasn’t so horrible, even if it didn’t make much sense. Oswald had offered to go, but Jim didn't want him to. Maybe he was just tired. Maybe it was his aching limbs needing help just to make it past his front door without tripping all over themselves. If he were attacked right now, he wouldn't be able to defend himself for long. Or maybe he saw Oswald's disconsolate face and wished that he could tell him that he understood so Oswald would smile again. But he couldn't. That would imply that what Oswald had done was okay, which it definitely was not.

"Are you hungry?" Jim asked.

"What?" Oswald sputtered, looking at him wide eyed. "I... I could eat. Are you? I can make you something. I'm not the best cook in the world, but I'll figure something out. I'm great at that."

"Oswald."

"Yes?"

"I wasn't asking you to cook for me."

"It's no problem, really. My mother taught me how to--"

"I'm going to order something. I was wondering if you wanted any."

"Oh. Okay."

"Pizza. I could use a pizza."

"I love pizza."

Jim peered at him closely, noting how desperate Oswald looked to please him. Jim had half a mind to let him.

 _Harvey is right,_ he thought. _I am crazy._

````````

They hardly spoke as they ate, just meaningless comments here and there. While waiting for the pizza to arrive, Jim had turned on the TV, glad that he had kept his cable subscription as _Seinfeld_ droned in the background. Stomach happily filled with pizza, his eyes began to close and he let them, slipping back into the dream he’d been having in the car. 

Someone moved his legs. He jerked back into consciousness, but the dream still grasped him tight, the waking world slippery, like a firefly he could see but couldn't quite grasp as his body stretched out on its side, a cushion cradling his head. His eyes flickered open, but he couldn’t keep them that way for more than a couple of seconds. Oswald stood over him, the edge of a blanket grasped in his hands. Warmth fell across Jim's back and shoulders, draping over his legs as slim fingers removed his shoes.

"It's okay, Jim," Oswald murmured. "It's just me. Go back to sleep."

Jim did, too exhausted to argue.

When he finally managed to open his eyes all the way again, the living room was dark. Untangling his arm from the blanket around his shoulders, he pushed himself up on his right elbow and reached for the lamp beside his head. His eyes stung as he switched it on, struggling to adjust to the sudden brightness. Once he could see properly, he squinted up at the clock above the TV. 9:50. Jesus. He’d slept for over nine hours. It had done the trick, though. His muscles were less sore, his feet steadier when he placed them on the floor. Hadn’t he been wearing shoes? Wait. Oswald had removed them. The blanket that he had taken off. Oswald put it on him. He’d laid Jim down on the couch and made sure that he was comfortable. 

Jim dropped his head into his hands, rubbing his forehead with his fingers, sighing deeply into his palms. 

His stomach gurgled, hunger pinching his gut. Reluctantly, he made his way into the kitchen. It was well stocked with food. Barbara had gone all out. Vegetables and fruit to keep him healthy, hot dogs and all his favorite toppings to make him happy, even chocolate chip cookies, the ones with the big chunks sticking out of the dough. Also the basic staples. Pasta, slices of beef, chicken, mashed potatoes. He imagined her bringing in the grocery bags and placing them on the counter, carefully remembering where each item went before storing it there. She knew him that well. Loved him that much. Enough to realize that he couldn’t stay and be who she needed him to be. He could not turn back the clock six months and put aside what needed to be done. She had kept saying that she was fine with all of it, that the nightmares were less now, that Zsasz was not haunting her every second anymore, but it had never felt like truth. She didn’t bother now. That half of his life she had claimed that she wanted… she didn’t pretend to anymore. And he didn’t want her miserable because he couldn’t, wouldn’t, step away from what he knew he needed to do. Sometimes he wondered why she hadn’t walked out on him already. And why he, as brave as he pretended to be in every other aspect of his life, was too much of a coward to do it for her. 

Grabbing an apple, he ran it under the tap and forced himself to take a bite of it, knowing that Barbara would want him to go for the healthy food first, ignoring how the tartness of the Granny Smith encouraged his eyes to water, the love that he had decided to reject infused in the crunchy flesh of the fruit. He didn’t want to eat anymore. There were a couple of pizza slices left. That would do for now, until he could refocus and stop seeing his shattered relationship everywhere in this kitchen. Putting the half eaten apple back on the countertop, he turned to exit the kitchen when he spotted a note tapped to the oven. Not Barbara’s this time. Oswald’s. 

_I know you didn’t want me to cook for you, but there’s all this food and none of it was made and I didn’t know if you would have the energy to cook when you woke up, so I made you meat pies. They’re far from perfect since I couldn’t find all the ingredients my mother uses, but they should be edible. I hope you like them._

_Oswald_

Meat pies. Now Oswald was making him meat pies. Jim looked in the oven. Two small pies sat on a baking tray, the pastry golden, a tad burned at one of the corners, but it was hardly noticeable. _He made them with Barbara’s groceries_ , Jim told himself. He would still be eating her food, in a way. It was just made by Oswald’s hands. The pies were cool by now, probably made hours earlier. He needed to heat them up, but, unable to delay his curiosity, he cut a small piece from one of them and put it in his mouth. Beef and mushroom. It tasted good, even cold as it was. Oswald knew how to cook. Jim was a little surprised. Cooking and Oswald had never been associated in his mind. 

He warmed up the pies. Finishing his apple while staring at the oven, he pictured Oswald now, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, cutting up the beef into thin slices, followed by the mushrooms and the onions. Jim didn’t own an apron, but his imagination added one to protect Oswald’s pristine clothes from stains. The thought made him smile, forgetting for a moment what they had spoken of earlier. 

He went to look for his phone. The battery was dead. After plugging it in, he discovered five texts and one missed call from Barbara two hours ago. She wanted to know how he was holding up, worried for him. She might spend the rest of her life worrying about him if he didn’t end it. He decided to call her, but he had to do one, little thing first. 

_Thanks for the pies,_ he texted Oswald. _They were delicious._


End file.
